Unleashed
by Indigo2831
Summary: Late Season 7, post "The Borne Again Identity." Sam always knew his past would come back to haunt him but he never thought it would happen like this.
1. Chapter 1

It's crazy to think that I finished this story and completely forgot about it. I have never written an abduction fic, so I decided to remedy that. I'm feeling all the good feels from the 200th episode, and I wanted to post something. I'm glad I remembered I had this story on ice. It's a bit on the violent side. Consider yourself warned. Please let me know what you think!

**Chapter One**

His body jolted him out of the nightmare before his mind did. The vestige of ivory brimstone lingered before his eyes. The twinkling echo of chains stirred in his ears.

Dean's hand splayed across his chest grounded him. He gripped it hard, gasping a little as he braced the other hand against the window and grit his teeth against the screams and bile in his throat.

"Easy," Dean said in a low, lionish purr. "You're all right."

Now that Lucifer's ghost was gone, the true impact his torture was brighter than ever, like the Morning Star himself. The despairing irony was not lost on Sam.

The hand left his chest to still chains and trinkets that hung from the Impala's keyring, knowing that sound triggered memories from the cage.

"We'll be in the Twin Cities before dinner," he said conversationally, "then it's all about trackin' down some werewolf ass. Or tail, whichever is politically correct."

Sam offered a non-verbal response, grateful that they weren't acknowledging his nightmare. Or the fact that he had them every time he dropped off to sleep without the Winchester-prescibed belt of whiskey.

He stared aimlessly out of the windshield, and tried to settle the canter of his heart. He'd fallen asleep to ridiculously blue skies and fields of green but now he saw mottled gray and brittle beige as they pushed north. Twenty miles or so passed in a precarious quiet before Dean cleared his throat, green eyes flickering to Sam and then back to the road. "You can talk about it, you know, if you want. The cage, I mean," Dean offered.

It seemed like several lifetimes ago when Sam stood on a peer and begged his brother for a similar unburdening. Dean had brushed him off then, more callously than his normal gruffness, and Sam felt rejected and shut out of pain that was mostly his fault. He understood now. It's not like he didn't want to talk about it, it's that weren't words, and if there were, they wouldn't make it past the lump in his throat and the screams in his head.

Sam rubbed his sweaty hands on his jeans, bunching the soft denim. "I'm okay," he lied, needing it to be true for a little while longer. He couldn't always be the one that was broken.

Dean's head rocked forward, demeanor calm with one hand loosely on the steering wheel. "I know you are. You're stronger than most people on the planet for surviving this. I'm just offerin' an ear, man. Whenever you're ready."

Dean was openly offering to haul him through yet another crisis. For now, it was enough. He forced a smile that felt shaky and jagged. "Pencil me in for 2018."

"Four o'clock good for you?" his brother shot back.

"Sounds good." He learned over and cranked up the music, settling back in the seat to enjoy the ride.

-SPN-

Sam had spent all but three years criss-crossing the country in the Impala. He knew the feel of the interior, the throaty whir of the engine and the placid sway of the frame. Before he knew anything else, Sam knew that the vehicle he was in, with its crappy suspension, bumpy ride and whining engine, wasn't the Impala. The Impala smelled like gunpowder and artificial pine, not stale cigarettes and body odor.

More concerning, however, was that he felt like hardboiled crap: queasy and heavy-limbed, more out of it than in. He wondered if Dean, sick of his nightmares, had drugged him but he as he found the edges of his body there was a stinging pain high in his torso and his muscles also felt like overused silly putty, some of them tremored involuntarily. Sam grunted, knowing the sensation. He'd been tasered.

There were hands on him now, and there were too many and too rough to be Dean's. They dug into the tender skin of his upper arms; something sharp gouged his right leg as was dragged up and out. Cold replaced warm. The world bobbled nauseatingly. Consciousness was a slippery thing, only allowing him power over one sense at a time. Sight revealed that he could only blearily blink into something dark and musty—a head bag—that covered his face. Feeling discerned that his head, face and ribs throbbed hotly. Sound was the lively chirping of birds, the grunts of effort and the scrape of his own feet nudging groves into the half-frozen soil as he was dragged.

Confusion blossomed into full-fledged when it finally sank in that he'd been abducted. Again.

He had no memory of being taken or if Dean was okay.

There was a creaking slide and then he was flung forward, landing with a merciless thud, like garbage at a landfill. He'd cracked his face on the cold, damp stone. Globs of light wormed through his vision and he groaned at the resulting pain, trying to curl around it.

Any attempts to move were thwarted when a booted food ground him into the floor. Gloved hands wrenched his arms behind his back and cuffed them so tightly, his wrists popped and stung as the cuffs dug in. Fear erupted into full-blown panic when he heard the insidious twinkle of chains. He may have screamed, and he was sure he fought, scrabbling against the floor, sandpapering off a few layers of skin in the process. The chain was secured to the cuffs, uncoiled and then locked to a hook on bolted to the floor. Leashing him like an animal.

And Sam fought like one. Adrenaline overrode the limpness of his fry muscles and he kicked out with his lethally long legs, and was thrilled by the bone-crunching impact.

The head bag was snatched off, a chunk of his hair going with it, and the light was bewilderingly blinding. Sam saw two figures, one lean and limping, looming over him before the butt of a rifle careened into view, snapping his head back. He slumped the side, blood rushing in his ears and down into his eyes. Two more blows followed to the shoulder and chest but the pain was an unimportant nuisance compared to the fear. The laughter in his head and the weakness of his spirit.

Passing out was the biggest of mercies.

-SPN-

Even though Sam was battered, swollen and terrified, he was still a Winchester. After fighting an epic battle not to vomit all over himself and tamping down the terror to a righteous level of trepidation, Sam began to survey his surroundings. They were keeping him in a shed of some kind—a simple cinderblock dwelling with a sliding door and no insolation. It was cleaner and bigger than the rat-infested hovels Sam's kidnappers normally picked. This one even had a small, dust-coated window that allowed a few meager bands of halogen light to filter inside.

He tried again to roll to his knees. It took too much effort, his abs and chest muscles straining, but he was able to hoist himself up with the grace of a drunken seal and balance on his knees, hunched forward. He glared distastefully at the coil of thick linked metal but vowed not to let it be a trigger for him anymore. Even if Lucifer liked to coiled him up in them and yank off limbs with giddy snarl. He would have plenty of time to be traumatized once he escaped.

He shimmied forward to examine how the chain was secured to the hook in the floor. It was a simple anchor commonly used for hammocks or porch swings-a thick metal ring attached to a plate with a bolt in each end. Sam nudged it with his foot, swearing when it didn't budge. It was obliviously made to withstand considerable abuse.

Sam's biggest weapon was the one he consistently tried to conceal: his size. While his recent skirmish with a car and Lucifer-bourne insanity hadn't left much time to pump iron, Sam was still pretty freakin' strong. With his back to the chain, he closed his eyes in concentration as he shimmied up with the chain inch by inch, link by link. He coiled it in his hands and chuckled mirthlessly when it finally snapped taut. With his hands behind him, he couldn't get effective leverage, but he bent his knees, sucked in a breath and yanked, straightening his legs as he did so. He tugged with all his might, until his muscles trembled and he grayed out from the effort. He glanced down, swaying terribly without his arms to balance. The anchor hadn't budged.

It was time to get creative.

Sam fed himself some line and repeated the arduous process, snatching the chain to the right, gripping it and heaving. It was a vicious tug o' war. Muscle and sinew was the clear underdog when up against metal and concrete.

He wasn't sure how long he fought and pulled and yanked and even kicked it with the blade of his socked feet. He nearly passed out during one horrendous tug, but finally it gave, one end rocked upward half-an-inch in a spray of concrete shrapnel and dust. He wasn't much but it was something. Sam sank to his knees, silvered and soaked with sweat, muscles quivering and useless from overwork.

Sam tried not to think about Dean being chained up like a rabid dog. Rather, he focused on his splitting headache, relentless thirst and ebbing fear. He'd faced far worse than this and survived. Sam could do this.

With a hiss and a whimper, he pushed himself up, ready to continue his work on the anchor. As he got to his feet, he heard the approaching crunch of gravel and the rattling click of keys in a lock. He threw the coils of chains and stomped the bolt back into the floor just as the door slid open.

Frigid air and tendrils of snow-studded wind wafted into the space. Instead of backing up, Sam moved forward, standing in front of his handiwork. Three people walked inside: one was a young man who was incongruously bookish, wearing a plaid sweater and glasses. He carried two cheap metal chairs and no weapon. The second was a woman, all hard edges and stony face. She stood at ease with a rifle slung over one shoulder in such a manner that Sam suspected she was ex-military. If she was, then last man who entered had to be the general. He strutted in after the two of them with his arms behind his back. He was tall and barrel-chested with a smattering of white mixed into a thick shock of brown hair and weathered, reddish skin like he'd spent a lifetime outdoors.

He nodded to the kid, and he sprung forward setting down the chair. He fumbled for the keys in his pockets, hands shaking a bit as he tried to find the right one. The chain and handcuffs fell away, and Sam smothered a groan of relief. He shook out his tingling hands and eyed his abductors without fear. "Where's my brother?"

The general lifted his scraggly eyebrows. "He's safe. My quarrel ain't with him." He gestured to the chair. "Have a seat, son. The name's Kit, Kit McGraw."

Sam bristled at the hospitality in his incredibly southern drawl but acquiesced.

He canted his head at the woman and the other two left, sliding the door closed behind them. He sat too. "Look, you don't want to be here anymore than I want you here. We both have better demons to fry, right?" He offered him a smile that was meant to disarm but only set Sam on edge even more. This jackass was a hunter. He thought he'd be used to this particular brand of betrayal or maybe that his heart was incapable of breaking anymore, but he wasn't and it was.

"I take pride in what I do. It's hard work, but it's the best work so the last thing I want is to call a compadre down to the carpet, but if huntin' is about anything, it's about gettin' your hands dirty to do the right thing."

Sam couldn't help himself. "So that's what you call kidnapping and assault. Bang up job you're doin' then."

Kit's face shut down so fast it was as if someone had flipped a switch. The amicable demeanor flipped to one of unsettling ire. He moved before Sam could register it and backhanded him so hard, Sam's teeth sank into cheek, Kit's ring tore his bottom lip.

Kit paced the around the shed, breathing hard. He loomed over Sam when he had got himself under control. "We are doing the work no one wants to do, weeding out the dirty and the diseased so it doesn't spread to the whole crop. This is how this is gonna go: I'm going to ask you some questions and you're gonna answer. Then you can be on your way back to your brother. It's simple. Don't go makin' it complicated!" Kit was so close, Sam felt the spray of his siliva. "I've done my research on you and your track record. Don't think you can squirrel your way out of this one. We warded against everything with black eyes or wings."

Sam glared and spit blood dangerously close to Kit's feet.

Kit's eyes narrowed and he growled, "This ain't good cop-bad cop, boy. This is Worst Hunter. Do yourself a favor and don't push me."

"Ask away. I've got nothing to hide."

Kit leaned in close, lips to Sam's ear he asked, "What do you know about the apocalypse?"


	2. Chapter 2

Thank so much for all the reviews and alerts. I'm so glad you are liking this story. I've been so inspired by the first few episodes of season 10, I can't stop writing. Does anyone still have "A Single Man Tear" still stuck in their heads? Please let me know what you think.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Sam's blood froze in his veins and the panic he'd been ignoring reared its ugly head once more. He wanted to avert his gaze from Kit's face and shamefully curl up in the corner. But he, Bobby and Dean had prepared for this, someone was bound to put the pieces together. They'd covered their tracks the best they could and their stories would all match.

Sam wished it had happened when Lucifer was still banging around his head. It would have made it much easier.

"I know that it's over." Sam shrugged. "Can I go now?"

"That's a freebie, Sam. You won't get another one."

"I'm not sure what you want." He shrugged, the picture of innocence. Dean always griped about his puppy eyes, so he tossed those in too.

"A lot of crap's rained down on us lately—hunters getting slaughtered, town's disappearing, strange untraceable illnesses linked to vaccines—and somehow you're always in the eye of the shit-storm. You want to explain that?"

"Occupational hazard," Sam said flatly.

Kit crackled his knuckles. "Don't get cute, boy."

Sam found it harder and harder to be scared of humans after taking in the very founder of evil and when he knew how easy they were to kill. "You know the drill. You show up to town, work a case and people are lookin' at you like like you did the deed when you're only trying to help," he explained. "I've worked some pretty hairy cases, took down freakin' horsemen, damn near got gutted by hellhounds. I didn't see you there."

Kit's cheek twitched. Just as Sam braced himself for a fist to the face, he changed gears. "Roy and Walt said you were into something nasty."

"And their source was a demon. They'd have no reason to turn him against me, right?"

Kit stood up. "And the Harvelles? They died under your watch."

Sam's gut twisted and his eyes instantly teared. He glanced away and bit the inside of his cheek. Their deaths would always be an exposed nerve, a touchpoint of unassailable pain. "They died on a mission to take-out the biggest bad of them all. They sacrificed everything for the greater good. Say their names again and you'll find out why you need those chains."

Kit's face twitched. "You had your chance, Sam. Just remember that. Let's see how brave you are when your brother's in the shed next to yours, begging for mercy."

Sam scoffed, vision bleeding red. Dean was probably already gunning for them.

The door opened again and the other two entered. The kid tapped Sam kindly on the shoulder and motioned for him to stand, so he could take the chair. The concrete dust from the loose bolt crunched beneath his feet, mostly concealed.

Sam saw the flash of silver and could barely flinch to the right before the shot was thundered through the small space. The force of the shot spun him a bit before he collapsed to the floor. The warm lilt of blood dripping down his thigh. Sam grit his teeth, and braced himself for the pain.

"Nice try, Sammy. But it's like I said, you ain't slithering out of his one, Lucifer's pet or not. Chain him, Luke."

It descended then, white-hot and tearing agony in his leg that ripped up into his hip and down to his toes. He cried out, not caring how weak he sounded or how much satisfaction Kit got from it. The kid—Luke—was fumbling with the chains again. His mouth was tight with horror as he did so. Sam's streaming eyes met his widened ones for a long moment. Luke scrubbed the emotion from his face as he cuffed and chained him again and left without a word.

Sam mewled low in his throat in the quiet and ground his head against the floor. He could hear the slap of blood hitting cement. He raised his swimming head with effort and gasped.

Luke had cuffed his hands in front of him. It was a small display of humanity and Sam leapt on it. In the lowlight, he could see the obscene holes in leg. The bullet had hit him high with a downward trajectory. He had punched through the back of his leg, slightly off center. With fumbling, cuffed hands, he tore his flannel shirt and pressed it against the puckered hole just beneath his hip. The cloth was too small to tie off, so he could only apply torturous pressure. He coughed and whimpered as he did, letting his head thunk against the ground. Blood still wept from the exit wound lower in his leg that he couldn't reach. There was little he could do with his bound hands, so he just held on.

It wasn't long before Sam began to shake. The cold that had been a minor nuisance for the big guy who ran hot. Now it was frigid as the arctic, thanks to his decreasing blood volume. The world, that used to be filled with grandiose goals like ridding the planet of Leviathans, grieving for Bobby and saving the people, shrank to nothing but that shed and the business of suffering at the hands of another.

Consciousness wafted in and out like a despairing tide. He surfaced again, trembling violently, gasping for breath. He cried out, blindsided by throbbing leg, hands nestled against his chest for warmth. Every time he passed out and woke up again, he was assaulted by the memory of what happened, the trauma of being shot and the horror that he'd been abducted.

Sam blinked, eyes flickered to the puddling blood that sharpened and blurred as he fought hard to stay conscious.

He was bleeding out, and could barely summon the strength to care.

And then he remembered Kit's chilling promise about Dean.

The thought of Dean stirred something within him. Dean had barely survived losing Bobby, the fight for Dick Roman was the only thing keeping him going. Determined, Sam started to move…slowly. He groped blindly for the chain, fingertips probing in the dark. He gripped it hard, towed himself as upright as he could get without passing out.

The shifting and maneuvering sponsored incidious pain but Sam had endured worse. Torture the physical body was far different than that to the soul. It was closer, edged with finality, but it wasn't as intimate or as scarring. Physical pain, however bad, was easily survivable.

He positioned the chain above the wounds, and wrapped the length around his leg and pulled it until it was snug, a tourniqet of metal. The representation of his fear had now become a lifeline. Blood, drying and tacky, was smeared amongst the floor, but flow from his thigh lessened considerably. It was all he could do for now. Eyes rolling back, Sam slumped over and drifted out with the tide.

The smell was fierce and acrid, climbing into his nose and burrowing into his throat like possessing evil. Sam tried to turn his head away, to escape, but felt fingers digging into his chin, trapping him. His eyes fluttered, and the darkness gave way to Kit's stern face. "Up and at 'em, Sammy."

His big head, complete with bulbous nose and scarred forehead vanished.

"See you got creative with the chain there, probably saved your life," Kit praised.

Sam coughed, hacking and dry. He curled his hands against his chest, over his heart that labored and raced between him. Luke set up the chairs once more. Sam wondered how much working stage crew for a psychotic hunter paid.

"Have a seat, Sam."

Captivity and torture, Sam knew, was about more than just pain and control. It was about stripping spirit as much as the body, and humiliation was a powerful tool. Sam gritted his teeth and crawled across the floor with strength he didn't have. Hitching himself up on the chair almost did him in. The third time he tried, Luke gnawed on his lip before he took a step forward to help. A strong grip and hard glare from Kit aborted his effort. "S'okay, I got it," Sam said and levered himself up with pure adrenaline, dragging the chain with him.

Luke left without being dismissed. The woman, he noticed, was gone. Sam wondered if there was dissention in the ranks. He stretched his skewed leg out in front of him, ignoring how tight his jeans felt. At least the fever was providing him warmth. Sam pawed the hair out of his eyes and regarded Kit with disinterest.

"Detriot," Kit spat.

"Birth of Motown," Sam remarked. "Motor City too."

He knew probably deserved the fist that smashed into his face this time. Kit wasn't remotely zen, and now he puffed like a dragon, fire in his eyes. The rage was poorly controlled which made him as dangerous as an unstable bomb. Sam needed to tread carefully to prevent an explosion until Dean came. It had been too long, nearly two days judging by the patchy stubble on his shirt and the ripeness of his clothes.

"Sorry," Sam muttered, lapping at the blood in his lip.

"No, you're not. You're enjoying this. You may have snowed Singer and some other good hunters, but I know what you are, boy. I know what kind of filth runs in your veins."

Sam averted his eyes. "What is that?"

Kit sneered. "A wolf in sheep's clothing, a trojan horse. Take your pick. You pretend to carry the burden of the good but you've gotten your hand in every disaster in the past four years. Word gets out that you're dead and then you pop up looking better than ever."

Kit loomed again, snatching a fistful of Sam's hair to yank his head back. "I know you won't talk no matter what I do to you so I'm gonna play the only card I got." Sam startled as Kit rammed a piece of paper in his mouth and down his throat.

Gagging, Sam rushed to yank it out. He uncurled it and stared in shock. It was a print-out of a security photo of Dean, a familiar hunter leering in the background with a treacherous sneer. "Lena's tailin' him now. She ain't like me, boy. She likes to hunt but lives for the kill."

Kit clapped Sam on the shoulder and headed for the door.

He knew it was a trap, and didn't care. His actions, however well-intentioned, had consequences and he couldn't stand for one more person getting hurt because of him. Because of what he was. His fate had been sealed the second he was taken and Sam was done denying it.

He licked his lips and began to talk. "There were sixty-six seals that the demons needed to be broken to free Lucifer from the cage," Sam said. The announcement stopped Kit in his tracks. He canted his head over one shoulder, listening but not fully satisfied. "Dean and I stopped the breaking of eleven. We failed more than we tried."

"That doesn't surprise me," Kit chuckled, reclaiming his chair.

Sam leveled him a withering look. "How many did you stop?"

Kit kicked Sam's bad leg. Sam would have thrown up if they had fed him.

"And Detroit, the pile of bodies there?"

Sam sighed. He hadn't told Dean about that, though he suspected he knew. "Lucifer killed them," he offered, wondering why it felt like a lie. Maybe because he still remembered the taste of the marrow of their bones.

"I find it hard to believe that you encountered the devil and lived. You better start explainin' yourself, Sam. Quick like a bunny before I skin you like one."

Sam tried to gather the words when all that seemed appropriate were the guttural screams that haunted his nightmares. He opened his mouth, faltered and snapped it shut at a glimpse of Kit's disgust and hatred. Kit moved to stand. to order the death of his brother. Without thinking, Sam bleated out: "Because he was possessing me," with brittle shame.

There was a no hesitation, no fumbling. The hunter leapt on him with a roar and streak of camo and Sam had no strength to fight him off. His fists were jackhammers powered by righteous rage more than accuracy. Sam could only curl and cover as Kit pummeled him. The litany stopped as abruptly as it started and Sam opened his eyes, not surprised when blood dripped into one.

The shed door was unlocked and rattling in the wind. Sam crawled for it immediately. The twinkle of the chain was the only warning he gotten before it struck him across his backside and lower back with the gentility of a lightning strike. Sam howled. The second blow felled him and he was clinging to consciousness by the third. Kit kicked him onto his back, secured him with a crushing knee to the chest even though Sam wasn't fighting back, and looped the chain around his neck, and pulled. His face was a crazed crimson, his eyes glinting and dark. "You unholy freak. You are a disease that preys on humanity. You are a cancer!" Kit said, spittle flying from his lips.

Sam pawed and scratched at his hands as he bought the horrible pressure pooled in his sinuses and bulged his eyes.

It hit him all to late of what he was truly terrified of, not the torture of the pit at the hands of two archangels or even what he did while he was possessed, but Lucifer's intoxicating, freeing anger. It had been all encompassing and all powerful and giving into it wasn't like imprisoning your soul but liberating it. Such ire imbued him now, frigid and bright.

Sam sucked in a thin thread of air and canted his head at Kit. The hands that weakly batted at the throttling chain curled into fists. The uppercut blindsided Kit with a crunch of teeth. The follow-up to his temple knocked the hunter off him completely. Sam grappled for the chain, tugging it loose. Air rushed in as the adrenaline was horked out. He writhed, unable to suck in air fast enough.

Kit advanced again, so Sam completed his truth.

"I let him out of the cage," he confessed with a rusty, wasted voice, "and I put him back in. And I suffered for it...for centuries."

Luke appeared out of nowhere, hauling Kit back. "This is not what I signed up for," he yelled. "You've gone too far."

"We need to wipe that monster off the face of the planet." Kit seethed. His menacing tone was now weak and wet, thanks to Sam's fists.

Luke shoved him back again. "You heard what he said. He ended it! He cleaned up his mess. We're finished..."

Lena jogged inside barely sparing a bloodied, beaten Sam a glimpse, and announced, "They're close...too close. What do you want to do?"

"We're leaving," Luke answered. "Wipe everything and meet me at the vans." Luke said, instead of Kit. He whirled around to the other man, clutching his lopsided, bloody nose. "Dad, go."

Kit left but not before shooting Sam a withering glare, a promise that he would finish the job.

Sam's head thunked against the ground. Everything hurt, especially breathing. The air burned his raw throat like lava, and his lungs couldn't expand fully.

A musty, motheaten sleeping bag fluttered down over him, a burner phone pressed into his outflung hand. Luke patted his cheek gently. Sam jerked regardless, expecting violence. "Your brother's close. You're three miles east of highway 60 in the third shed. Call in your location, okay? I'm...sorry I let it go this far. There's a lot you don't know, okay?" The frantic voice was growing fainter. "I don't have time to explain. Call your brother, Sam, and you'll be fine."

Luke disappeared.

An engine roared and ambled away.

Sam gripped the phone, and tried to find the strength to use it.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you so much for all the feedback for this story! I was a little unsure about posting it, but it's grown to be one of my favorites. I was going to split up the last part, but I think I've tortured you all enough! I added an epilogue just to tie it up a little more and as a thank you for the support. Please let me know what you think.

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

Wintry wind plucked at the sleeping bag. The door clanged loudly against the frame. Sam knew somethings were broken and torn up inside and that there should have been considerable pain, but he was placidly and gravely numb. Snow flakes filtered in from outside, glittering in the dark like frosty fireflies. It was pretty, peaceful.

The phone was heavy in his hand. He'd forgotten his lifeline.

It was a cheap burner. A variation of the kind Sam had used hundreds of times on the job. He relied on muscle memory, opening with the phone with a flick his thumb and dialing blindly. The SEND button was large and raised and he pressed it hard. The beckoning voice was tinny and wolfish but it was definitely Dean. Sam's head swiveled towards it. His attempt to speak angered his malfunctioning throat. He only managed a ragged sound, like the scraping of metal over rocks. Sam punched the keys instead. "444" was Winchester code for "COME NOW" or "HELP."

"I'm on it, Sammy, you hear me? I'm coming."

A tear of relief dribbled down his cheek and Sam closed his eyes, wounded and weak, but waiting.

"Sammy! Jesus!"

The edge of the bag, that the wind had pushed over Sam's face, lifted hesitantly, like Dean expected to find a corpse. Sam eyes were open and they refused to focus on his brother's face. The hands on his cheeks were warm and gentle and Sam was so thrilled that it was finally over that he nearly passed out again.

"No, no, Sammy, eyes on me. Stay with me, okay?" A hand left his cheek to grope the chain still looped around his neck. "What did those sick freaks do to you? I'm gonna get this off you and we're gonna go, okay, Sammy?"

Sam tried to speak, but Dean shook his head. "Not yet, Sam. We can save talk therapy for later."

Dean grimaced, hissing in sympathy, as he tried to untangle the chain without moving Sam. It took patience and a steady hand-something Dean didn't seem to have. He was unshaven and jittery, and Sam knew he'd been subsisting on caffeine and terror for the past few days. He tossed the chain aside and put his hands on Sam's shoulders. "Let's get you up, huh? Can you walk?"

The agony Sam hadn't missed earlier returned, tenfold. Sam grabbed Dean's collar, eyes widening, throat locking down on the consequent screams. When Dean turned back to him, Sam mouthed one word: SHOT.

"They shot you?! Where?" Dean whipped back the sleeping bag and cursed sight of Sam's mangled leg. "All right, looks like you get the cavalry."

He pulled off his jacket and bundled Sam in that, then replaced the dirty sleeping bag to keep him warm. "I was going crazy when they snatched you, Sammy. I'm so sorry I couldn't get here sooner. You're doin' good though, got them running scared. Bet you tried to escape, huh? I can take it from here..." Dean's hand raked through his dirty, half-frozen hair. The motion was gentle and comforting. Sam smiled with his split lips. The world was small again so it only contained the one thing Sam always needed: his big brother.

-SPN-

Dean had memorized all the times Sam had been hospitalized.

Being born into a family of hunters who'd opted to duke it out instead of hug it out, the list was ridiculously extensive.

But he never got used to seeing Sam swathed in a gown, hooked up to monitors, restless with pain even the drugs couldn't touch. It took a slightly larger piece of him each time, especially since he'd been snatched under Dean's nose.

Dean stood outside of Sam's hospital room cracking his knuckles and almost twitching from his last triple red eye. He watched as the nurses examined his airways, and administered more drugs to combat the infection from the gunshot wound that had festered for two days. At least the doctors weren't toying with the idea of taking the leg anymore.

"Poor, pitiful Moose. I can't remember the last time I've seen him look this side of craptacular," Crowley tsked, suddenly standing next to Dean. "No, wait, it was last Thursday."

Dean turtled, shoulders hunching up to this ears. Crowley's voice was always like nails on the world's evilest chalkboard. Nurses walked by, frowning at the fluorescent lights flickered above him, never knowing he was The Prince of Darkness. Crowley carried a rather extravagant bouquet of flowers—black roses, naturally—and had a fluffy, stuffed moose tucked under one arm.

"You called, Peaches, and I came running. It's been a while since I've been in hospital. Should I go all 'Terms of Endearment' on the hot nurses? Make sure Sammy gets his morphine?"

Dean set his jaw and crossed his arms. "Are you done?"

"No, but do go on. Lemme guess, you need a favor?"

"Yahtzee, and you might like this one."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "You must have me confused with the traitor in a trenchcoat. I only heal people when I get payment, but darling, your soul's as black as mine."

"I'd sooner put Sam in Gitmo before I'd let you heal him. You might give him antlers or something. I want you to get the sons of bitches that did this to my brother."

Crowley perked up a bit. "Outsourcing your revenge? My, how corporate we've become."

Dean tamped down his rage and stepped closer to Crowley, speaking lowly as an orderly walked by, checking on the broken light. "If you want us to take down Dick Roman, we don't have time to be kidnapped and tortured by whackadoo hunters."

"Simmer down, killer. You had me at hello. Can I kill them, pretty please with sulfur on top?"

"Do what you want. Their souls are yours for the slashing." Dean shrugged. "Leave the kid, Luke, to me. Otherwise, go nuts. Here's the info," Dean handed out an envelope.

Crowley rolled his eyes and pushed his hand back. "Please, Dean, I'm Crowley."

He vanished in a twist of red smoke only to reappear at Sam's bedside. Dean powered into the room, pulling the blinds shut with a perfunctory snap. His breath blew silver and his chest seized with color. The air beside Sam's bed warbled and wiggled until the blue-gray specter of Bobby Singer appeared, face twisted into outrage that seemed more menacing from the other side of the veil. "Take one more step, Crowley, and I'll Swayze you all the way to 'Nam."

Crowley lifted his eyebrows. "I'm paying my respects to my favorite Moose, you old sod. I can't believe you don't trust me after the tender moment-and the beard burn-we shared." Crowley spouted theatrically. He turned to Dean, "and you...figures you'd have a ghost hauntin' your brother."

Dean fondled the flask of holy water in his pocket and perched himself by Sam's beside. He was running on fumes and out of cards to play, but anger always made Winchesters wickedly creative. "Run along and torture like a good lil' demon before I exorcise you and let the interns go ballistic on your meatsuit. There's a few things I'm pretty sure you're partial to." Dean seethed so intensely, his face twitched.

"Since you asked nicely. Make sure he reads my card." He shoved the flowers into Dean's arms and set the stuffed moose at Sam's feet and materialized into the ether.

Dean deflated as soon as he was gone, setting the flowers on the table. Flinging them out of the window or setting them on fire might get him banned from the hospital. Sam was still unconscious beside him, injured leg elevated and puffed with beneath the blankets.

Sam's face and throat looked like a Monet, painted in hues of blues and burgundys. He shifted in the bed, jerking sharply. The painkillers may have eliminated the physical pain but it stirred up the emotional, leaving him locked inside vicious nightmares. Dean winced in sympathy.

Bobby spoke before he could. His voice gritty voice as soothing as sandpaper, but it had been the same voice who read Sam bedtime stories and cheered him on at soccer games. "Hush now, son, you're all right. Just rest."

Dean didn't look up. It was easier to pretend Bobby was alive if he didn't.

Sam sighed and stilled, breathing evenly.

"His temperature's comin' down." Bobby said to Dean.

"Doctor thinks it'll break in the morning. Maybe then he'll finally wake up."

"How's his leg? I heard...worried about...the circulation?" Bobby's was flickering and staticky and Dean looked up to see him trying to grip the blankets.

Mastering all things spectral took time and concentration, as a virgin ghost, Bobby hadn't learned to channel his agitation into anything useful. Whenever he got angry, he fritzed worse than his ancient television set. "Bobby, chill. You're gonna blink out again."

"Whatdya think I'm...do, boy?" He spat, voice fading as he flickered. "Feel like...friggin' Christmas lights."

"Well, wax on or somethin'." Dean snapped back.

"...useless...dead..." He muttered before fading completely.

Dean dropped his head into his hands. Even though he still thrummed with frenetic energy borne from the past days of fear and chaos, he was exhausted to the point of pain. His head ached and his stomach was cramped and tight from his steady diet of spiked coffee and belly-burning worry. Sam had barely recovered from being institutionalized and now, there he was seriously hurt again.

When his body began the slide into sleep—something that happened the instant he was still for more than a minute—Dean jerked himself awake. He knew the routine, knew that he should sleep while Sam was, like a mother would with their newborn, but Dean wouldn't find peace in slumber. He'd be haunted by Sam's abduction and the horrors of finding him in a storage shed of an abandoned fair grounds, beaten, filthy and a barely breathing.

The smell of curdled blood and the frozen mess bucket alone had put him off food.

Dean checked the monitors again, and kept his eyes trained on the arching lines of Sam's steadier heartbeat. It had been jagged and broken in the ambulance and in the ER while the doctors tried to warm Sam up before taking him to surgery.

Dean crumbled the paper in his hand. And opened the floodgates on his anger. He'd never be able to leave if he hadn't.

"Bobby," Dean uttered into the soft light of the room. "I know you're strugglin' right now, but you need to ghost up and be here. I have to leave. I have to make sure this doesn't happen to my brother again, but I can't do that if he's not safe. Do you understand? Bobby, get you ugly ass out here."

"Get goin', you idjit," Bobby gruffed from the corner of the room. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

-SPN-

When Lucifer rose, hoards of demons were sent topside for his coronation: the immediate and deft slaughtering of hunters, which made hunters bars quickly became as safe as Pearl Harbor. A few had popped up again in recent years though their locations were harder to find than some of the rarest lore, but thanks to Garth, Dean always ha the right intel. The Armory was a hunters' bar disguised a trendy gastropub. Dean Winchester strutted in, all popped collar on his new leather jacket and pitbullish focus.

He bellied up to the bar, easily picking out which of its patrons were on the job and which were just hipsters rockin' flannel and beards because of the irony. Dean made eleven, possibly twelve.

The bartender was clad in her own crimson flannel shirt, though it was barely buttoned at the breasts and cinched tightly at the waist. She also had cherry red lipstick to match. Dean turned on the charm as he approached.

Her suspicious brown eyes warmed slightly when he smiled at her. "What'll it be, Dean?"

"Oh you've heard of me? I'm flattered."

"They said you were pretty and I just didn't believe them," she remarked tossing a pile of black curls over her shoulder. "Thought you'd be taller, though."

"M'brothers' the sasquatch. I'm just right."

The bartender, Rae, didn't seem impressed, which was fine because Dean was running out of niceties and patience. "What'll it be?"

Dean leaned forward to utter, darkness in the edges of his tone. "I'll have a whiskey neat and Luke Mankoff...please."

Rae's face hardened. She stomped away, poured him a tablespoon of whiskey, slammed it on the bar. "Drink it and get out," she barked.

Dean downed it with a roll of his eyes. Rae tried to walk away and Dean grabbed her arm lightly. "Oh miss, I didn't get my full order." He slammed the glass on the bar. "Luke Mankoff, now."

"He's not here!" Rae said firmly.

Dean drew in a cleansing breath to keep him from becoming unglued too early and popping her one. "The building that houses this bar was constructed in 1923, meaning there are probably tunnels and secret rooms all over this place. Judging the size of the building versus against the of this room, I figure they're on the east side and beneath the floor," he stomped twice, creating a hollow creak. "_Bianca Ramone Miller_, you're not directly related to Luke Mankoff, but you're connected through your girlfriend, Lena, his sister. Get me the kid now, or so help me God, I will burn this place to the ground and come back for his ashes with a shovel." He said viciously. "If you heard of me, you know I'm capable of this and so much more."

Rae's eyebrows climbed in shock, and she took a step back from Dean in fear. Now that she was thoroughly terrified, he attempted softness instead of steel. "Do you know what his family did to my brother? They drugged him, hustled him out to the country and threw him in his dark shed in the cold for two days. Then beat him with chains, shot him and left him for dead. Your girlfriend and her father masterminded it. Luke helped them."

Rae looked stricken. "Lena saved me from a berserker two years ago. She loves the job because it helps people. She does it to honor her mother, she would never..." Rae trailed off, remembering something she was unable to hide. "There's only one reason Lena would do any of that. I'm afraid I can't help you, Dean."

Her eyes flickered to the right. Her head canted slightly to the darkened hallway, surrendering the information or at least pointing him in the right direction.

Dean stalked down the hall, undeterred when he reached what looked like a blank wall, a dead end. He whipped out his zippo light and lit it with a smooth flick of his hands. The trusty flame illuminated the hallway. There was hunter green wallpaper on the top and exposed cream brick at the bottom. Dean squinted, inspecting wall. The flame danced a bit, revealing the exchange of air. Dean pocketed the lighter, took two measured steps back and launched himself at the wall. A splintering of wood and brick and one jammed shoulder later, Dean was inside what appeared to be an old office. He coughed at the stale air and the stink of body odor. There was a thump and a shuffle to the right of the hidden door. Dean hurdled a cluster of boxes that must have been piled in front of the entrance, and slid over the mahogany desk to corner the small flailing occupant.

Luke Mankoff was not what he expected. He was slim-framed, baby-faced and wore honest-to-goodness Dockers. He looked more like an extra from "The Big Bang Theory" than a hunter. Sam could have torn him apart without breaking a sweat. No wonder they'd kept him chained. Dean stalked towards him, emitting an actual growl.

"Wait, wait wait!" Luke cried, flinching with every step.

Dean picked up the first thing he could get his hands on, a crystal ashtray, and backhanded him with it, feeling the impact ripple up his arm. Luke dropped with a whimper, clutched his dented face. Dean snatched him by the collar to snarl in his face,"Do you know who I am?"

Luke blinked, his eyes tearing. He nodded exaggeratedly. "You don't understand. My dad just needed answers! My...my mother was in Carthage. She died there, the g-grief twisted him and festered in him, and he lost his way," he cried. "He never said he'd shoot him!"

"And you let him," Dean said and threw him against the wall. Luke collided with it and toppled to the floor.

He kicked him a few times, a few sharp jabs just to burn off some volatile tension before it morphed into something he couldn't control. He'd gotten texts from Sam after he'd called, a transcription of his attack in broken, gruesome phrases, and it had made Dean sick to read what they both thought were his last words.

He snatched Luke to his feet by the scruff of his neck, arm wrenched behind his back, and marched them both into the light of the bar. Unsurprisingly, there was a litany of shifting and clicking as ten guns appeared from underneath coats and flannels and ankle holsters.

The four men and two girls who were in the bar, and weren't hunters, screamed and ducked in their booths. One man, with horn-rimmed glasses and a pork pie hat, fell off his chair trying to duck for cover. "Hey, Mumford And Sons, beat it." The kids scrambled through the door, bolting to their cars...and vintage bicycles.

Dean turned to men and women in the room, towards their distrustful faces and the barrels of their guns. "I'm Dean Winchester. You may have heard of me," he smiled but it felt ferocious and crooked. "Inform young Luke here about my number one rule."

A man in a corner, who was slumped in the chair in dirt-splattered boots, chimed in. "Don't touch his lil' brother, no matter how big that kid is." He didn't bother raising his gun and seemed to be enjoying the show.

"I'll say this and you can get back to your drinking. There are some nasty rumors about my brother that refuse to die. I'm going to shut them down, so no one will ever feel they have to right to come after my kin again. There was an apocalypse. Lucifer rose from his cage. Sam Winchester, my little brother, put that bastard back in it. You are all drawing breath and drinking watered down whiskey because my kid brother took on the devil and won. He sacrificed everything to do it, too." Dean announced. "For that, this little bitch and his clan chained him in a shed, shot him and left him to bleed to death in a hovel."

Three guns lowered. A mouth dropped open in shock. Outrage shifted from Dean to Luke.

"My father's dead," Luke sniveled. "He was torn apart by hellhounds. My sister...she just vanished. He had them killed!"

"Crap happens," Dean said innocently. "Especially to hunters. Just ask my brother." He pointedly snapped. Dean regarded the hunters again. "We're up against too much to keep fighting each other. Spread the word. I'm lettin' the kid live, and this is the last bit of mercy I got in me. If anyone so much as makes bitchface in my brother's direction, there will be nowhere to hide."

Guns were lowered one by one. The adrenaline and the anger was failing him. Dean wished he had the energy and the stomach to tie Luke to the bumper of the Impala and hit the highway like he'd imagined on the drive down. All he wanted was to be by Sam's bedside when his fever finally broke, and spend what time left he had with Bobby.

-SPN-

Sam wasn't sure what tossed him out of the nightmare and into consciousness, just that hand dashed over his mouth a second before his eyes flew open. The sunlight was blinding and the Impala skidded to lopsided stop on the shoulder. "Shh, dude. You're okay. Screaming would probably tear up your throat, though, so chill. It's okay, Sammy."

He blinked at Dean's earnest face, and felt the fear immediately abate.

Sam wiped at his sweaty neck with the edge of the blanket tossed over his skewered leg.

The car pulled back onto the road with a bump and glide, and Sam curled up in the seat angling his aching body towards Dean.

A prism of light drew his eyes to the Impala's keyring, and he noticed the trinkets were gone. He stared at the shining metal, tears welling up in his eyes. For the first time since he'd gotten his soul back and regained his sanity, Sam felt safe. And just like that, Sam didn't want to carry it alone. He wanted to talk about Lucifer and the cage; Kit and his chains. He was compelled to unburden himself about how it felt to be constantly hunted and hated by his own kind and how he just wanted it all the stop. How sometimes he thought, just for a second, about eating his gun or stepping into traffic.

Sam just wanted to _talk_.

Except his larynx was broken, and he couldn't create more than guttural, rusty sounds, and wouldn't be able to speak properly for weeks. He was isolated in an entirely different and maddening eyes welled at bleak realization.

Dean glanced at him, short and cursory at first, then worried and prolonged, when he saw tears. Sam's leaking eyes met his for a long moment.

Dean reached out, gripping Sam's shoulder hard enough to hurt. "I know, Sammy. _I know._ It all seems so big and impossible, but it'll get smaller, Sammy, I promise." He wiped his eyes, but Dean didn't let go. Sam knew he never would.

Fin.

**_Epilogue_**

Dean Winchester was grinning.

Because Sammy had finally regained his stride that was one part lethal, one part grace. Dean, squinting against the afternoon sun, watched his brother stride across the parking lot at his full, sun-blotting height, the slight limp looking more like swagger than injury. He wasn't hunched over from the pain of broken ribs or sullen-faced because he had so much to say but was unable to speak.

Sam leaned in the Impala's window, his face light with smugness. "It's not our kind of case. Autopsy showed Evelyn Weimer died of natural causes. She had an anneuryism. It was only a matter of time." Sam's voice was still raspy from the chains, deeper than Dean's now.

"I told ya, Sammy. Always listen to your big brother," he started the engine, waiting for Sam to fold himself into the Impala, and toss his suit jacket in the backseat.

"Dude, I told you! You don't get to twist his one around!" His smile came smoothly. Dean had suggested that Sam kept a journal while he was non-verbal. Sometimes he wrote in notebooks, others he typed online. Sometimes he sent Dean the link.

Dean ignored him. "After a hard day's work, it's time to eat."

Sam huffed a laugh, that was adorably hoarse. "We worked for twenty minutes."

"I know, I'm exhausted, aren't you? I know a place nearby." Dean steered the Impala to The Armory.

Sam dutifully followed him in, manhandling him through the door to prove that yes, his most of his strength had returned. Once Sam saw the men inside, the telltale bulges beneath their coats and the weariness in their eyes, and he stiffened, grabbing Dean by the arm. "This is a hunters' bar. We can't be here."

Dean planted his feet and shook his head. "Don't you like all that fancy, gastropub food? Come on, Sam. Can't pass up the best wings in three counties." He gestured to the chalkboard highlighting their specials.

Sam shook his head, hair swinging like a Pantene commercial. "I think I'll manage if it means I don't get darts thrown at my head."

"Would I ever put you in a dangerous situation?" Dean asked seriously. "Trust me, Sammy."

They slid into a booth and waited for the waitress. Sam immediately began murdering the paper napkins to burn off his anxiety. Rae approached them, setting a glass of beer in front them. "On the house, guys," she smiled at Sam, and offered him a friendly a wink.

Sam seemed baffled.

They ordered and immediately after, a hunter came up to the table, hat in hand. Sam entire body tensed, preparing for a fight or at the very least, insults.

A hunter had kind dark eyes and close shaved hair. Dean recognized him as the one who didn't raise his gun when Dean made his announcement about Mankoff. "I just wanted to shake your hand, Sam, and show my thanks. Wyatt and me, we paid for your dinner and your next round, so uh...eat up!" He shook Sam and Dean's hands enthusiastically and ambled away as quickly as he came.

Dean raised his beer to Wyatt in gratitude. Sammy seemed baffled, finally glancing around the bar to recognize that the faces there were friendly, not hateful. He looked at Dean, touched and gobsmacked. "What did you do?"

"What I should have done a long time ago, Sammy. I told the truth. We got enough on our plates without worrying about hunters. No one will ever touch you again. Not on my watch and now, not on theirs."

Sam rubbed his hands together, clearly moved by the silver glinting in his eyes. He'd been a lightning rod of emotion ever since Kit and his torture. "But if you start bawling like Taylor Swift in a bar full of hunters, even I can't protect you from what'll happen next."

Sam laughed, loud and happy and hoarse. Dean leaned back and enjoyed the sound.

Another hunter approached, a woman with short black hair and an epic leather jacket adorned with studs and chains that chimed merrily as she walked up to their table. Dean felt something festered and hateful release inside of him when he realized Sam never noticed.


End file.
